While writing, I will tune you out.  I will tell you to stop talking, to stop chewing gum, to stop breathing (yes, this happened.  But he was being ridiculously loud).  I will get up and leave.  I write by myself.  I write in silence, for that is the best way to write.  No music.  No people.  No creaking doors or shuffling chairs.  Just my thoughts.  My own criticisms and wonders and judgment’s, free to run wild.  It doesn’t matter what I’m writing.  Anything from literary analysis to poetry is open territory.  I’ll speak my mind, so long as the moment the words transcend from my mind to my hand to the paper, it is just I. 

            I don’t write to be selfish, but I write selfishly.  It is really the only time I will put myself 100% first, that I will make things completely about me.  It’s the only time I will consistently want to be on my own.  I am an extrovert.  I thrive in situations where different people and ideas surround me.   And yet, when I want to convert my own thoughts to word and paper, I prefer isolation.  I go into a hypersensitive mode where the most insignificant sound or movement will trigger irritability that remains in hiding in any other circumstance.  I want to be by myself.  With others, I lose my train of thought.  I get caught up in what others are saying, and lose the freedom to lose my filter.  Alone, I can explore.  I can make mistakes.  I can figure out what the heck I’m trying to say.

            But why I write and how I write are two separate entities.  I write alone for others.  I write to satisfy that tiny piece of ego deep inside of me.  I write because I’m a bit vain.  I could phrase it more pleasantly, saying that I write for others, which I guess on the surface is mostly true.  But what really spurs me to write is the self-fulfillment that accompanies someone’s approval of what I write. 

            As I entered this rabbit hole of discovering why I write, I stumbled upon the words “selfishness,” “vanity,” and “ego.”  I was initially ashamed.  I was shocked by how terrible of a person it made me seem.  I wouldn’t describe myself like this, but when it came to writing, they all seemed to apply.  After much reflection, I came to terms with the fact that any author or artist must have a sense of pride and confidence to share their thoughts and opinions.  It takes a certain audacity to willingly put one’s musings and sentiments out in the public eye and welcome response.  I realized I reveled in the thrill of anticipation of the audience’s reaction, whether it be positive or negative.  I write for others to read, but when stripped to the most basic sense, I simply write for myself.

            To be honest, I think a little bit of ego and vanity is necessary.  I would say “necessary evil”, but really, is it such a bad thing to hold oneself in high regard?  Why write if you don’t think what you’re writing is A) Worth Reading, or B) is important for either you or someone else?  Even if someone only writes journal entries or blog posts for his or herself, there is still the sense of relevance.  The writing of the piece has significance, or else the author would keep it inside his or her head, not giving it the time of day or effort to see the light.

            As often as I tried, I personally could not get myself hooked on journal writing.  I would regularly ask my parents for different journals diaries and notebooks each time we went to Borders or Barnes and Noble, thinking that if I could get the prettiest, fanciest, most interesting looking one, I would want to write in it ever day.  For the first week, I would let it sit on my desk, too afraid to make the first mark in it.  I would wish that my handwriting would magically become calligraphic, though that never seemed to happen.  For the next week, when I finally got over the fear, I would dedicate myself to carefully weaving entries together, but would eventually lose interest.  Looking back, it makes sense why I didn’t care much for this style of writing.  Although I like writing independently, I craved an audience’s reaction.  It was read by me, myself, and I, but we didn’t quite fulfill my ego.

            My clearest first memory of writing was way back when I was little, early elementary school (my guess is first grade).  I would sit at the large wooden desk in a spin-y chair in my grandparents’ office with an old fashioned yellow lined pad of paper, and write about anything and everything.  Nothing was off limits.  I’d write stories and poems for hours.  Once I was happy with a piece, I would skip down the hall to my grandparents’ bedroom and read it to them out loud.  They would mute the television and listen intently.  The praise I received from my grandparents, my parents, and my elementary school teachers prompted me to write as often as I could. 

            In third grade, I submitted one of the poems, “Night and Day”, to a national poetry contest, Celebrating Poetry.  It read:

            When the sun goes down

                        there’s always a happy sound

                        of families laughing and playing.

            Now it is dark

                        not a peep or a spark

                        and everyone is sleeping.

            Throughout the night

                        there is hardly a light

                        until the sun awakens.

            Then the sun rises high

                        in the bright blue sky

                        and the world is there for the taking.

This poem was named the “Top Poem: Grades K-3” in the country.  It was published on the third page of a hard cover book, still on display on one of my bookshelves at home.  This 3rd party validation added more fuel to the fire, leading to more free writing.

            Although writing has taken on a more obligatory role in my life and education, I still thirst for the approval of an audience.  I write research papers rather than fairy tales.  I write analyze poems rather than write my own.  Now this approval most often comes in the form of a grade.  And as time goes on, the response will change.  Criticism or praise won’t come in a neat quantifiable value, as the restriction of academic criteria is lifted.  No longer do I just share whatever thoughts happen to drift along, as I did when I was young, but I can if I want. I have the ability to take a stand on something relevant, or create a fantastic world from the depths of my imagination.  I can send my opinions into the world and maybe make a difference (who knows, a girl can dream).  I know that even if only one person reads what I write, I have the power to potentially have an impact on that person.  Maybe they’ll agree with what I write, maybe they won’t.  But to at least make someone think for a moment, is enough to make my ego happy.